Witch
by Frau Frost
Summary: Turn off the lights.


**07:45 AM**

The blood spatters all around, pouring on a new rug, on the furniture and on me, too. I try so hard to stop him bleeding but I fail. It seems, the more I try, the harder fountain of blood gets. I grab the first thing I can find and tear it apart. It was my blouse. With one part of the blouse I compress the horrifying wound on his neck. He wheezes, he vomits blood, and then he chokes, but I do not stop and still cover the bite, which was left a few minutes ago with a darkened, damp cloth. The poison bite should have been mine, but my husband, who rushed to protect me, took it upon himself. He has stolen my death.

His green eyes begin to roll, and he wheezes quieter, his body starts to shake in convulsions. The agony. Till this moment I kept myself calm and restrained, because I didn`t want to get hysterical. Tears are traitors. They are already running down my cheeks. I sit in front of him; keep my hands upon his neck, sob and whine. I am still afraid to move, as if it will make everything even worse. Is there something worse?

In fact, there was no use in my medical help. But how could I stand and just watch? At least, I tried. I could not change the terrible fact, but could delay his death. His blood has already impregnated the bandage I made and a big dark puddle appeared around his head. His skin gets pale and those beloved lips of his turn blue and I can see it even through the layer of blood, which runs from his mouth. His hands are shaking. I start to think if I can help him to die, but I don`t have a chance to find a good tool for self-made euthanasia, because the body in front of me shakes one more time and gets freezes. That was the end. The whole world is about the end. Time freezes. He`s dead. He`s the lucky one. I am not, but I am about to understand it soon.

**10:27 АМ**

How long am I sitting fixedly? No one can say. The blood on my hands has already dried up, and now unpleasantly tightens my skin. I am waiting. For what? Just something. A death, help, cry of even a hit. Just something what would make me move again, because I cannot do it myself. All I can do is to sway slowly, bending over the cold body of a man who passionately loved me a few hours ago and then I was sure I`m the happiest woman in the whole world. Now he`s mute. His hands have lost their former warmth, his hands are no longer under his control. His eyes are glazed, staring straight at the ceiling, unable to move or close. I want to help him to close his eyes, but my hand stops halfway. My hands are trembling. If I close his eyes, I'll never see them again. I won`t remember them. I`ll forget. A hand falls limply on his chest and I finally burst into sobs. I cry so hard that I can't breathe, as if my lungs have shrunk to unimaginable proportions, they burn with fire, and I try to breathe air into them, but it immediately breaks out. I cry so hard that my head fills with ringing, and my face burns with salty tears.

I know what I have to do. What? The kill shot in the head. I can`t. I have no strength for it. One parts of me knows, what I have to do, but another one wants to leave everything as it is and accept everything what`s gonna be next. It`s inevitable. I take my decision, but I can`t move.

I`m numb. I`m crying and howling. I`m waiting.

**1:03 РМ**

I can hear a wild scream from the outside. The screams are so loud that I can hear them even here, on the fourth floor, with the windows and doors shut. The scream mixes with the sounds of fighting, swearing, distant explosions, crying, and sirens. The cacophony is deafening, it doesn`t let me hear my thoughts.

I still sit beside him. Suddenly, a rustling captures my attention. His fingers, recently permanently immobilized, quietly scrape the floor. Scratch, scratch. Glass eyes still stare at the ceiling, but her lips barely quiver. Glass eyes still stare at the ceiling, but her lips barely quiver. It`s scary. It`s late. I don`t have time to look for some heavy thing I can use to kill him again, but I stand up. Numb feet treacherously refuse to hold me. And I, barely stepping to my feet, wincing from unpleasant tingling, begin to walk around the room. And I, barely stepping on my feet, wincing from unpleasant tingling, begin to walk around the room.

I say, it`s too late. That second part has won. Pity for the deceased husband took over. I'm not ready to pay with my life. Please. No, it`s still too late. He had already started to rise. "It is necessary to disrupt the central nervous system, so that infected could not rise." That`s what was written in one of the booklets, which were distributed at the very beginning of the epidemic. A shot, a strong blow to the head, or broken neck and here you have minus one infected. It`s late. My legs still refuse to serve, but I don't give up. I can hear him wheezing and it makes my skin crawl.

I walk over to the kitchen table, grab a butcher knife and smile gleefully. But he`s stronger. He`s dangerous. Cold hands, the hands of Death, lightly scratch my shirt, but I manage to Dodge and stab to cut off a few fingers. Why do I have so much power? It's fear. But the dead don't feel pain. They don`t know mercy. They don`t love. They don`t remember the living. That's why the man I love try to reach for my neck with his cold, bloody hands. I won`t give in that easy. I`d love to live.

One blow is not enough and I start to aim at the neck or head. I remember what to do. He rushes at me too fast, I manage to dodge, but his teeth have time to grab my forearm, and then I stick a knife into his head just to the hilt.

He starts to fall, but his jaw is still clenched and he pulls me down with him. I try to tear his head from my hand with a wild cry. I managed to tear it off just with a piece of my skin and flesh.

I have to stop your own bleeding. I grab a dish towel and run to the bathroom in a panic. I'm sick, but I'm holding on. In the bathroom I find a first aid kit and look through all the bottles that are there. Iodine. Ethyl alcohol. Peroxide. Some pills. I uncork the first bottle that comes to hand. I fill the wound with liquid, which immediately begins to hiss and foam, and then wipe the foam with a towel. I'm choking. The panic breaks the chest. My hands are trembling. I toss everything on the table by the sink. I don't notice that I'm crying louder. Horror covers my head, but I do not stop my business. I grab the second bottle. Brown drops fall right into the wound and I howl like a wounded animal. I bite a towel. I take the third bottle. I pour liquid again and bite the towel again. I soak the towel with something sharp-smelling and wrap it around my forearm. I just try to get rid of the infection. Do I know it's late? Of course, I do. I said it myself recently.

I get out of the bathroom and fall on the sofa in the living room. I can't stop crying and sobbing. I`m still sick. Headache and fever come later. But that's because I've been crying too long, isn't it? Don't answer, I know it myself. Everything's going to be OK. With the sweet hope that everything is gonna be alright I fall into darkness.

**6:38 РМ**

I open my eyes. The room stinks with blood, dead body and... something else. It stinks with fear. That's it. At first I can't even understand where it all came from. Why my arm hurts? Why my eyes are swollen? Why lips are so dry, like I didn't drink for couple of days? And most importantly, why am I so cold, even though it's august? Why am I sick and why does it taste like rot in my mouth?

I remember. I immediately want to fall back into the darkness, just not to think about what happened. I open my eyes widely. That hurts. It hurts to look at the light coming through the open windows. I want to extinguish the sun, to remove this light, causing me so much pain. I want it to be in dark again, and I want this terrible headache to go away. I get up sharply, my eyes darken immediately. Slowly, but surely, I go to the window to pull the curtains tighter. When it's done, I fall back on the couch.

My arm... My arm hurts. I'm trying to tear a towel off the wound. My hand is swelled like a holiday balloon. I can't move a finger, but I can see the nails turning black and the knuckles swelling. I know that it is pointless to hope for the effectiveness of recent procedures, but I still want to believe that everything will be fine. Gritting my teeth, I unwrap the fabric over my hand and freeze in horror. The laceration is no longer bleeding, but the skin around it is red and inflamed.

I don't want to believe it is real. But what will change if I deny it? I'm sleepy. I want to fall asleep again. I hobble to the ruined first aid kit, looking for pills. I gulp the pills down and wait.

**8:00 РМ**

The pain makes me wake up again, brings me back to reality. The torn wound burns as if a flock of bees is swarming in it and each strives to bite and get out. I don't feel weak, I'm not thirsty, I don't want to sleep anymore. I don't feel fear either. Like nothing ever happened. Only my arm hurts.

I get up. The man's body lying in the middle of the room doesn't bother me anymore. He's gone for me now. One movement, and the table lamp flashes. Bright, powerful light stunningly hits the eyes, making its way to the pupils even through the closed eyelids. I feel as if I, a child of darkness, have suddenly stupidly stepped out into the summer sun and am now reaping the fruits of my recklessness. I stand with my other hand trying to find the switch to stop the torture. Click, the light disappears, but my eyes still hurt, and for a while I'm not able to open them again.

Finally, I can look at my hands. The bitten hand is no longer swollen, but the skin still has that eerie blood-scarlet hue. All other parts of the body are deathly pale. But why am I not worrying? I look at it as if everything is in its place and nothing has changed.

I still can hear the screams, cries, groans and delayed male and female voices from the outside. Someone fired. This shot hurts my eardrums and I squint again, overcoming the pain, covering my head with my hands, just not to hear these diabolical sounds. I want to find that shooter and tear him apart. To keep him quiet. But the shots do not abate. At short intervals, they resume and the pitiful suffering is replaced by rage. I jump up, unable to stand and run to the sounds.


End file.
